Father said: «You are no longer our daughter.» They took everything. 3 years later… They declared me dead. I walked into my funeral—I smiled and said…

One by one, doors that had always been open slammed shut. I became a ghost, not just to them, but to the entire world that had once known me. Eventually, I did what broken people do.

I left. I moved abroad. Took a job in a cafe.

Changed my number. Learned to live quietly. I didn’t post online.

I barely spoke my name. But even then, deep down, I held onto hope. Hope that someday, someone, anyone, would call.

Ask if I was okay. Tell me it. Had all been a mistake.

That day never came. Instead, something worse did. Last year, I tried renewing my old email.

But it wouldn’t go through. When I contacted support, I was told the account had been deactivated due to a report of user deceased. My name had been marked as dead in their system.

Officially. Digitally. Completely.

They hadn’t just disowned me. They erased me. I couldn’t sleep that night.

The video played on a loop in my mind. Their voices. Their fake grief.

My face next to a casket I’d never seen. My own funeral. Without me.

Something wasn’t right. So I started digging. First, I called my aunt.

Rachel, my mother’s older sister. We hadn’t spoken in years, but she always used to sneak me candy at family reunions. She answered on the second ring.

Hello? Aunt Rachel, it’s me. It’s Maya. Silence.

Then, click. She hung up. I called again.

Blocked. Next, I tried my cousins. One sent me a thumbs-up emoji and never replied again.

Another asked, Is this some kind of sick joke? No one believed I was me, except one. My youngest cousin, Sam. The one who always looked up to me when we were kids.

He texted back, hesitant. Maya, are you really alive? Yes. I need to know the truth.

What did they tell everyone? The typing bubble blinked for a long time. Then, they said, You died. In a car crash.

Overseas. Three years ago. My stomach dropped.

They had a whole story. Said it happened while you were traveling. That it was too late to bring you home.

Cremation. Closed casket. I nearly dropped my phone.

There had never been a car crash. I’d never even owned a car while abroad. Something in me snapped.

I pulled out every document I had. Passport. Stamps.

Rental records. Immigration papers. I had never been in an accident.

I had never gone missing. So I checked the public records office online. And there it was.

Maya Delacroix. Date of death. July 16th.

Cause. Road accident. Status.

Deceased. Certificate ID. ARC F9130027.

They forged it. They made me legally dead. I stared at the screen.

Frozen. This wasn’t grief. This wasn’t denial.

This was a cover-up. But what were they hiding that was worth burying me alive? I should have stopped digging. But once you realize your own family buried you alive, you have to know why.

I found my answer in a place I hadn’t looked in years. Elena’s Instagram. She’d gone public again.

And there it was. A glittering carousel of images. White roses…